


We were dreamers, dreaming greatly

by Skoll



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skoll/pseuds/Skoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur does not say anything, just looks at Eames too long himself, not affectionately but rather in a way that seems to say that he is sure there is something to make of Eames, even if Arthur does not yet know what that something is. - In which Arthur and Eames share a mostly quiet moment on the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We were dreamers, dreaming greatly

They are working a job together, except that this is not the precise truth. It's midnight, now, or nearly, but midnight in an empty, echoing warehouse with just the two of them working inside, which is entirely different than midnight on the streets below them. There is nothing enclosing about this space, no creeping feeling in the walls; windows line the place, allowing the glow of streetlamps to enter and wearily light Arthur's face. Eames is stretched out in a desk chair on the very opposite side of the warehouse from Arthur, curling into his seat in the sort of way that only comes with true relaxation—what he knows, but will never admit to, is that that sort of true relaxation only happens in these easily forgettable hours, when Arthur is all he has or wants for company, and the sound of pens scratching across paper is all that disturbs the silence. They are working on a job together, except that Arthur is building the job from the floor up and Eames is building the people that will be its anchors, and really they are not working together at all. They never do, until those final moments where a dream finally comes together or slips completely apart, until they are acknowledging some shared, dangerous competency that they value above else. For now, they are sharing a space and a few spare hours and the sound of rain falling against a window, and creating the world that they will own together, if only for a few moments' time.

This is one of those nights where Eames feels the pressure of the upcoming job, where hours of practicing mannerisms and memorizing the names of childhood pets have accumulated into a headache behind his eyes. He leans back in his chair, tilting it so that the two front legs have lifted from the ground, and allows himself a moment to wonder if this is a habit he learned from Arthur or taught to him. In the aftermath of pondering when that line became so blurred—what was once only Arthur's and what was once Eames', pooled into an impossible collection of memories that neither of them would admit to sharing out loud—it only makes sense to look over at Arthur, to see the sharp lines of his face and clothes which make poor substitutes for the lines between them that are falling faster and faster all the time.

It is midnight, and the dim light of the streetlamp is harsh on Arthur's skin, making him look sharp and almost stupidly young at the same time, and wonderfully familiar. This is where Eames knows Arthur best, in warehouses and silent hours spent close but separate. He and Arthur are not friends, precisely, and maybe Arthur has a better word for what they are, but Eames can't call one to mind. They just are, as they have been almost since they met—when Arthur was new to the business and barely in his twenties and still got carded in bars, and Eames hadn't learned a lazy comfort in his skin and hadn't realized he was not perfect and was still growing that awful mustache—and, whatever they are, they are most it in moments just like this one, moments easily forgotten or explained away by the vagaries of low light and late hours.

Eames cannot explain why, in these moments, something in him curls with want and something more, with longing meant in a context not used in bodice rippers—not pining, desperate, easily explained desire but something very like little fingers in Eames curling out towards Arthur's skin and hanging in the air there, never touching. There is no easy word for this, either, for what Eames sees in Arthur in these moments. Eames thinks he might be disappointed if there were. What can be defined, after all, can be forged, or can at least be forged by Eames—he flatters himself by thinking that this, whatever it is, is the sort of thing he could not slip into and out of so easily as he exchanges skin. Things like this are what ultimately remind him that his life is not a dream, and that is ever so much better than an easy, convenient word.

When Eames knows he has looked too long, but does not make himself stop, Arthur finally lowers his pen and looks up in return. There are oddly endearing ink stains across the tips of Arthur's fingers—Eames is paid to notice these things, after all, and can hardly stop himself from collecting these little details, and would hardly stop himself in Arthur's case anyway. Arthur does not say anything, just looks at Eames too long himself, not affectionately but rather in a way that seems to say that he is sure there is something to make of Eames, even if Arthur does not yet know what that something is. The obvious question goes unspoken, as does nearly everything else, and Eames finds himself smiling almost against his own will.

“Sorry, darling,” he says, and startles himself with the sound of his own voice. Eames puts on a smile labeled in his mind as self-deprecating, conciliatory, not too charming, and says, “Lost myself for a moment there.” He never loses himself—in his line of work, he can hardly afford to—and Arthur knows this more instinctively than anyone else. It's meant as an escape, an offer to allow the moment to be broken, if that is what Arthur wants. Eames has made it easy for him, after all; it would only take a soft, go back to work, Mr. Eames, and this fragile, unexplainable moment would cease lingering, as Eames half wants it to.

Instead Arthur just looks a moment longer, something in his face which is not soft or gentle or relaxed but is meant solely for Eames anyway, and then looks back down. His pen scratches back across paper.

Eames drops his chair back to the ground and very nearly says, thank you. He's not sure what he means by it, though, and in the end just turns back to his work himself.


End file.
